


Out of the Flames

by MistyMountainHop



Category: That '70s Show
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Romantic Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-21
Updated: 2013-05-13
Packaged: 2017-12-09 02:52:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,919
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/769117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistyMountainHop/pseuds/MistyMountainHop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A life-consuming fire connects Jackie and Eric in unforeseen ways, but it also creates a wall between them. Eight years later, Jackie ends up on Eric's doorstep, but will her arrival heal their wounds or deepen them?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Eight Years Later

**Author's Note:**

> **Disclaimer:** _That '70s Show_ copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC.
> 
>  **Author's Note 1:** My part in a T7S fanfic and 'ship exchange with the very talented Marla's Lost. Her writing has magic in it. I'm always thoroughly entertained (and mesmerized) by the fictional worlds she creates, and her work inspired this challenge.
> 
>  **Author's Note 2:** Zennies, beware. There be dragons (but one of them is friendly...)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** _That '70s Show_ copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC.
> 
>  **Author's Note 1:** My part in a T7S fanfic and 'ship exchange with the very talented Marla's Lost. Her writing has magic in it. I'm always thoroughly entertained (and mesmerized) by the fictional worlds she creates, and her work inspired this challenge.
> 
>  **Author's Note 2:** Zennies, beware. There be dragons (but one of them is friendly...)

CHAPTER ONE  
**EIGHT YEARS LATER**

Jackie rang the doorbell of Eric's Bay View home. The dulcet chime was pleasing, but her breath remained shaky nonetheless. One could prepare only so much for the unknown. Leaving a familiar habitat, no matter how noxious, took courage. That was what Eric had told her. People got used to pain as if it were an old shoe, something as injurious as it was comfortable.

She rang the doorbell again. Eric was taking his time opening the door. Maybe he'd gotten lost on the way to the foyer. Technically, this house belonged to his aunt Paula. It was as quaint as its café-laden neighborhood, with white siding, a cozy patio, and what looked to be a sizable garage. The window boxes were filled with colorful pansies, no doubt planted by Mrs. Forman. The flowers were an annual plant that died when the temperature got too cold. Fortunately, Milwaukee had enough warmth in May to keep them alive.

Jackie focused on the pansies, on their purple and yellow petals. Patience was never her greatest virtue. When she wanted something, she usually grabbed it. Slamming herself into Eric's front door, however, wouldn't get her inside the house faster. Her body was built like a one of Mrs. Formans' pansies, not a bulldozer. She was perfectly shaped and naturally beautiful, and charming her way into places was more effective than forcing it.

A scuffle drew her attention back to the door. The sound, along with muffled shouts, came through the cherry wood. Some thudding footsteps followed, and Eric finally appeared. He opened the door casually, but he seemed out of breath. A pink balloon was floating at his chest, attached by a ribbon to his arm. "Welcome!" he said, voice cracking. "Come in."

"Thanks." She tried to get a good look at him—she hadn't seen him in years—but he moved aside as she entered the house. Clusters of pink and purple balloons crowded the living room. A giant banner had been strung up, and inscribed across it were the words, "Welcome, Milwaukee's Most Accurate Meteorologist!"

She clutched her handbag at the sight and glanced at Eric, but his appearance was as jolting as the decorations. During their phone calls, she imagined his voice coming from the spindly-bodied and boy-faced Eric she'd left behind at the funeral. The Eric beside her now was not him. His face had matured into a man's, with hard edges and an underlayer of emotional mileage. His body had thickened up with muscle, too, like someone who labored regularly, like chopping wood or hauling sandbags.

She allowed her eyes only a few seconds of scrutiny. Her nerve endings were reacting to him, as if her body had absorbed a truckload of Pop Rocks. She'd anticipated some discomfort but not this particular kind. The effort to process such feelings required more strength than she had. Her reserves were tapped out, and she plastered her gaze to the banner. "I didn't expect a party."

"It was Aunt Paula's idea," he said, and the pink balloon attached to him bobbed. Evidently, he hadn't outgrown gesturing with his arms.. The balloon's ribbon was wound around his sleeve, and he disentangled himself from it. "She thinks you're—"

"Oh, I just can't stand it!" Paula said. She sprang from a persimmon-colored couch, rushed forward, and grasped Jackie's hands. "Welcome to my home! I can't believe you're _in_ my home! Jackie Burkhart!"

Jackie flinched. She was used to being fawned over in certain arenas, but she never believed a Forman—well, a _Sigurdson_ —would be the one fawning. Paula's bright outfit and makeup matched the exuberance of her welcome. Her grip on Jackie was tight, too, but it loosened once Jackie smiled graciously at her.

"Hello, Jackie." The greeting came from a much softer voice. Mrs. Forman had remained on the couch, but her warmth reached Jackie across the room.

Paula, though, didn't seem to feel it. She glared back at Mrs. Forman as if the woman had called Jackie a whore. "'Hello'? That's all you've got to say?" Paula said. "Kitty, she just won the Chicago/Midwestern Emmy for Outstanding Meteorologist—"

"Yes, I know," Mrs. Forman said and went up to Paula. "Would you come into the kitchen with me for a moment, _Paula?_ "

"But—!" Paula sputtered as Mrs. Forman dragged her into a hallway. "But—!"

Jackie stared after them, but Eric's laughter broke her focus. "Sorry about that," he said. "My aunt's a big fan."

"Of course she is." She fluffed her hair. "A lot of people are, as they should be."

He nodded. "You're hot stuff—"

She arched an eyebrow. Eric Forman had no business calling her that.

"On TV," he said quickly. " _On TV._ You're the only weather girl my aunt trusts. She wouldn't shut up about your coverage of the blizzard last year."

"That's because I'm much more than a weather girl, _Forman._ Unless the six years I spent studying atmospheric science was just..." she mimed taking a pull off a joint, "an hallucination."

He looked down at his shoes and cleared his throat. Awkward silences used to be commonplace during their phone conversations. They'd mostly outgrown them after years of talking to each other, but her attitude must've jarred him.

"Where's the bathroom?" she said. An easy question to answer, and something that returned his gaze to her.

"Down the hall where my mom yanked Paula. Door's on the right."

"Is there one where I can avoid being mauled?"

"Oh, uh ... yeah." He pointed to the carpeted, spiral staircase behind the couch. "Second door upstairs. Can't miss it."

She squeezed his hand in thanks and disappeared up the stairs.

He was right. The bathroom was hard to miss. Its pink tiles were a style choice she might've appreciated, if not for the particular shade. Cerise was too bold for a bathroom, but the décor didn't matter. All she needed was privacy.

She locked the door and clenched the floral, porcelain sink. Her whole body was shaking, probably had been since she'd arrived in Bay View. She looked at herself in the mirror. Her own reflection usually calmed her down, but distress was etched into her face. Eight years of it.

She turned on the sink's faucet and cupped water to her lips. She dried her trembling hands thoroughly afterward. Paula's on-trend—and very tacky—pink leopard-print towels should've been outlawed. The '80s had not been kind to fashion or style. Even the toilet seat was hot-pink. Jackie sat down on it anyway, hoping the neon wouldn't soak into her expensive, classy Gloria Vanderbilt jeans.

A rumpled, folded letter was in her front pocket. The paper was patched up with tape, and she pulled it out carefully. She'd read the letter so often that the words were branded on her brain, but she still read it occasionally. Like yesterday. Like now.

She scanned the letter until she got to the part relevant for today.

 _"Go to Forman if you need anything W.B. can't give. Forman's good at listening—and at convincing his ma to help his friends. And his ma's good at convincing Red to help_ _her._

 _"Don't think too hard about it, doll. They'll care about you 'cause I do. Trust me: you can trust_ _them_ _, even Forman. He'll fight for you when you can't fight for yourself. But he's gotta know you need it."_

"I've been trying," she said. "I'll keep trying." Her fingertips traced over the letter's inked words. She kissed its creased and battered paper and, with a swallowed breath, returned the letter to her pocket.

* * *

Eric was in the midst of swatting balloons when his mom returned to the living room. She had a tray of cookies in her hands, and she was alone. "Honey," she said, "don't bother the balloons."

"But they're so puffed-up and haughty," he said, but he also did as she asked. "Where's Paula?"

"Oh, I convinced her to bake Jackie some of her _Paula's Surprise_ cupcakes."

His shoulders stiffened. "You told Paula to _bake?_ "

"It should buy us at least an hour. Jackie seemed overwhelmed by the attention Paula was giving her." His mom went to the couch and placed the tray of cookies on the coffee table. "Speaking of Jackie, where is she?"

"Bathroom."

"We shouldn't have told Paula Jackie was coming over."

"If we'd done that and Paula found out, Paula would never have forgiven us."

His mom pursed her lips. "You're right," she said, and he tried to snatch a cookie off the tray. He couldn't decide which to take, though. She'd made an assortment of them, and his indecisiveness allowed her to brush his hand aside. "Eric, those are for Jackie."

"You didn't bake any peanut butter chocolate chip—"

Her eyes widened. "Of course not! I wouldn't do that to her."

"Good."

She sat on the couch. Her fingers darted to her blouse collar and agitated the ribbons at her neckline. "It's kind of a big event that Jackie finally..."

"Yeah."

"Maybe you should take down that banner—and hide the balloons."

"On it." He dashed to the living room's smallest closet. He removed the step ladder and placed it against the wall. "Can't believe Paula Scotch-taped her ceiling for this."

He climbed the ladder and pulled the banner's right-edge from the ceiling. He ripped off the tape, too, while the banner drooped like a dead flower toward the floor. Its left side was still attached to the ceiling, but he didn't feel like dragging the ladder across the room. His body was taught with nerves, having anticipated Jackie's visit, so he yanked on the banner until its left side came free.

"Paula really went all out," he said and jumped off the ladder. "Out _there._ "

"Well, your aunt tends to get overly-enthusiastic about things," his mom said. "Remember when she was dating that baseball player?"

"Eddie Mathews!" He picked up the banner and crumpled it to his chest. Then he began gathering balloons. "Can't believe she went out with him. He's a National Baseball Hall-of-Famer!"

"Hall-of-Famer—whoopie. You know what deserves to be in the Hall of Fame? My stuffing recipe. But no. Famous Halls are reserved for baseball players like that Eddie Mathews. Your aunt went on and on about his FBIs—"

"RBIs..." He shoved the balloons with the banner into the room's biggest closet. It had space enough for three bicycles and then some.

"Yes, all that stuff." She waved her hand dismissively. "On and on she went about his batting average. Anyway..." she glanced at the antique, Art Deco clock on the wall, "Jackie's taking an awfully long time in that bathroom. Maybe you should check on her."

"Ohhh, no." He shook his head. "Nope, n'uh-uh, not happening. Burkhart would _not_ appreciate being barged in on."

"You're probably right." She grabbed a cookie from the tray and bit into it. "Poor Fez's eyelashes still haven't grown back."

"How did you know that? We haven't seen Fez since the wedding." He sat next to her on the couch and pointed to the cookie tray. She nodded her assent, and he chose a sugar-encrusted gingersnap. "It's been three years."

"His annual Christmas letter. You really shouldn't have skimmed it. He gave us a lot of interesting information."

"It was twenty-five pages long!"

"And they flew by with my glass of Cabernet." She finished up her cookie and brushed crumbs off her skirt. "Honey, I've been wondering..."

"Yes?"

"Why do you call Jackie 'Burkhart'? You always do that on the phone."

He shrugged. "It's our thing."

Footsteps trod lightly on the spiral staircase. Jackie was back. She seemed to notice the removal of Paula's decorations because a deep breath left her. "There aren't going to be any more surprises, are there?"

"Aunt Paula's safely stashed away in the kitchen," Eric said. " _Baking._ "

She raised both her eyebrows, clearly understanding what he meant. He'd shared more than one of Paula's kitchen exploits in the last few years, eliciting a few laughs from Jackie on the phone. But she wasn't laughing now. She approached the couch silently and sat down on his mom's other side.

He stood up. "Do you want me to leave? I can go upstairs—"

"Stay," Jackie said.

He backed up against the wall, keeping the couch in view. He liked that she'd given him the okay to stick around, but he would've done whatever she asked.

"How are you, Mrs. Forman?" she said with her gaze on his mom's eyes. The question seemed simple, but he knew better. It represented several, far more elaborate ones, unspoken but implied: _how are you after eight years without him?_ _Do you still miss him? How badly? Does it ever debilitate you, even after almost a decade?_

Jackie had asked these underlying questions to Eric over the phone, not looking for answers but _an_ answer: was his mom in a safe enough emotional space for Jackie to talk to her?

The answer had been yes, and Jackie's visit was scheduled. He still had trouble believing he was physically in her presence. This was the first time he'd seen her since his father's funeral—in person. He watched her on TV every morning when she reported the weather. She had an incredible on-camera charisma. Her sense of humor and compassion shone through all her meteorologist-speak, whether discussing the summer UV index or how low-pressure systems affected snowfall in winter.

He liked to absorb her image in the mornings and apply it to their phone conversations in the evenings. She always ended their talks with, "Another boring conversation, Forman." But that fact never kept her from taking his calls or phoning him up herself.

They'd spoken plenty in the last eight years, but the amount had tripled during the last six months. He and his mom had moved to Milwaukee then, to live with Aunt Paula. He'd offered to meet Jackie for coffee more than once, even before the move, or to see her on her terms. But they'd never managed to get together. Until today.

"I'm doing well," his mom said to Jackie. "There are times I really feel him, as if he's still alive." She placed a hand over her heart, and a tiny smile rose on Jackie's lips, the first Eric had seen since she arrived. "And I know I'll see him again. It's just not time yet. I still have things to do."

"Are you..." Jackie's smile faded, and she glanced down, as if she were unsure to voice her next question. "Are you angry?"

"At whom?" his mother said.

"At Mr. Forman ... at Steven."

His mom sighed, and his own body sagged against the wall. The events of eight years ago shot through his mind in quick succession, tearing open the wounds. But as his mom spoke, they closed up again.

"I was, for a while," she said, "but eventually my understanding of the circumstances left me with mostly sadness … and, to be completely honest with you, Jackie, I still do get sad. Especially in quieter times when I'm alone, but that's one reason I moved in with my sister. It's rarely ever quiet with her around."

Jackie fell silent, and his mom rubbed her arm tenderly. "It's okay, sweetie. It's okay," his mom said, prompting Jackie to speak. She bravely asked what she needed to. His mom answered honestly, and Eric hoped neither of them noticed his grin. It kept emerging on his face because of the pride he felt. Jackie and his mom were delving deeply into their pain, and they both surfaced from it appearing weary but lighter.

Jackie embraced his mom afterward and thanked her. They both wiped the tears from their wet eyes; then Jackie met Eric at his spot against the wall. Her hand surrounded his fingers, gathering them together like a bundle of twigs.

He straightened up, saying only, "Hi." He must have sounded like a dope, but he was unsure how to react.

"I'm ready," she said.

His pulse tightened. "Ready-ready?"

"Yeah."

He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. "I'll be with you every step of the way."

* * *

Jackie waited with Mrs. Forman on the couch while Eric went upstairs to "gather a few things". Unfortunately, during that time, his aunt Paula emerged from the kitchen. She was carrying her freshly baked cupcakes—if one could call them baked—on a tray. They smelled burnt, and chocolate frosting ran over them like melted flesh.

Jackie's breathing staggered. Both the sight and stink were unbearable. She rose from the couch and inched away as subtly as she could, which mean not subtly at all.

"Oh, come on," Paula said. "They don't look that bad! Try one!"

"No, thank you," Jackie said roughly. She didn't mean to be impolite, but all her willpower was devoted to keeping her inside the house. She'd already moved across the living room. "I-I don't eat cupcakes."

Paula didn't get the hint. She cornered Jackie in the foyer. "You don't know how much it would mean to me if you enjoyed something I made. You always brighten my day with your forecasts. I'd like to return the favor—"

"Then back off," Eric said. He rushed up behind Paula and gently but swiftly guided her toward the living room. "Remember when we had that little discussion about boundaries? You can't cupcake-assault my friends. No means no."

"I didn't mean anything by it. I just wanted—"

"Mom?" he said and gestured to Paula.

Mrs. Forman jumped to her feet and swiped a cupcake off Paula's plate. She bit into the chocolate frosting. Her eyes squinted, and her mouth puckered, but she swallowed down her bite. " _Mm_ ...that's a surprise, all right. Why don't you take me through exactly how you achieved it? So I can learn something..."

She ushered Paula and her burnt cupcakes into the hallway—with a goodbye wave in Jackie's direction—and Jackie breathed again once they were gone.

Eric met her at the front door. "Sorry again," he said. He had on a backpack and was carrying a paper shopping bag.

"It's fine. Let's go."

She led the charge outside to the breezy spring air. She stepped off the patio and went to the driveway where her car, a cherry-red '87 Acura Integra, awaited her. She'd bought it in celebration of her Emmy, an indulgence well-earned.

Eric whistled behind her. "Nice wheels."

"I know." She smiled proudly then sunk herself deep into his arms. Her body had stopped shaking a while ago, but her innards were jelly. She needed an anchor, something to ground her in the present. Paula's cupcake surprise had done her no good.

"Yeah..." He placed the shopping bag on the ground before embracing her. "I smelled them, too."

"Eight years, and the memory can still affect me like that." Tears crept to the corner of her eyes, but she didn't let them loose. "I'm usually okay around burning food, but I wasn't prepared for it. Not today."

His hands remained a stabilizing force on her back, not rubbing, not patting. Just supporting. "Are you sure you're ready?"

"Yes. My shrink told me this kind of thing is normal. Healing comes in layers. The cupcakes were just too much with everything else."

"I hope—" His voice hitched. "I hope this doesn't put you off to visiting the house again. I'll make sure Paula isn't around next time."

She nodded against his shoulder before letting him go. She tried to peek inside his shopping bag, but he picked it up before she could. "What's in there?" she said.

"You'll see at the appropriate time."

"And the backpack?"

"Just my stuff, like my keys and miscellaneous items. It's easier that way."

She smirked. "Tacky, too."

"I carry a briefcase to work. Does that help my image?"

Her smirk became a chuckle, and she took out her car keys. "Not really, but cruising in my badass ride will do wonders for it." She dangled the keys in front of his face, like she wanted him to drive, then yanked them away. His brain had a delayed reaction, though, and his fingers snatched at the air dumbly.

"Damn!" he said as she led him to her car. She'd burned him but didn't declare it. She hadn't declared her burns in eight years, and he didn't expect she ever would again.

* * *

* * *

[Flames.2_Mind-Matter](http://mind-matter.deviantart.com/art/Flames-2-Mind-Matter-279303970)  
[Fire for Use](http://fav.me/d5f13vc)  
[Fire for Use 4](http://fav.me/d5rvtki)  
[Fire Stock](http://fav.me/d5zgfvg)  
[Fire 17](http://fav.me/d5uso8e)  
[Fire Stock 21](http://fav.me/d5veu2n)  
[Fire Stock 27](http://fav.me/d5xr8rk)


	2. Reliquary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** _That '70s Show_ copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC. _The 10th Kingdom_ copyright Babelsberg International Filmproduktion GmbH  & Co. Beitriebs KG and Hallmark Entertainment Distribution, LLC.

CHAPTER TWO  
**RELIQUARY**

Jackie liked her apartment. It was spacious and decorated with things that made her feel at home. Without the influence of her parents, her taste had gravitated toward an upscale and eclectic country style. In the living room, a slab of petrified wood served as the coffee table. Behind it was a quilt-covered sofa, and scattered throughout were seagrass storage ottomans. They contained her thick winter clothing, but she also used them as extra seating and snack tables.

Eric gestured at her décor. "Not what I expected."

"What did you expect?" she said.

"A lot of pink? The Captain and Tennille posters?"

"In other words, 1978."

He grinned sheepishly. "I guess so. Certain things just get frozen in your brain."

"I should've sent you pictures to update your brain ... but you look different than I imagined, too."

"Yeah. I still have my hair. Who would've thunk?"

"No, that's not it." She reached toward his face, and he didn't recoil as she rubbed a lock of his hair between her fingers. His barber had clearly used a razor to shred out some of its thickness, but it felt surprisingly soft. "You look like an adult."

"Oh. Well, puberty finally hit me after twenty-eight years."

"Life, too," she said.

His lips curved down, but his frowns were never one-note. He had a variety of them, and they expressed a range of emotion and thoughts. She remembered this fact from their days in his parents' basement. This particular frown seemed to carry a weary grief, along with a decent measure of empathy. His mouth had always been expressive without needing to say anything. It was something she couldn't see over the phone, and perhaps the silences between them were full of unspoken ideas, of feelings his lips could communicate but not his voice.

She gave his shoulder a warm squeeze before leading him to her bedroom. What she'd chosen to do today was like his frown, a result of weary grief. Or, more accurately, by a weariness _of_ her grief. The bedroom, though, didn't reflect either fatigue or mourning. On the surface, it represented her success and class, her life as it was now. A French country style inspired her furniture selections, such as her mahogany dresser, painted antique-white, and her button-tufted linen headboard. But hidden within the room's walk-in closet was the agonized, beating heart of her pain.

"This is it," she said and slid open the closet's double doors. Three large cardboard boxes were ensconced among her shoes and clothing. Eric helped her drag them out to the room. Duct tape had sealed them shut, but she plunged a pair of scissors into a box without ceremony. She tore open the box's top flaps, revealing Steven's things, the physical remnants of his time on Earth.

She pulled out a rolled-up poster first. She knew what it was without opening it, his Sex Pistols poster, the only one that had adorned his wall. She passed it off to Eric and said, "Charity," and he put it into the appropriate trash bag.

Next, she removed a Ziploc bag from the box. Inside were scraps of notebook paper, napkins from The Hub, and other whatnots Steven had scribbled on. These were the equivalent of love letters to her, haiku or silly jokes, even doodles of them together. She handed the Ziploc bag to Eric. "Junk it."

He looked down at the bag, and his thumbs smoothed over the plastic. "You sure you, um ... you want to get rid of all these?"

She patted her heart. "They're here, Forman. He's here."

He answered with a new kind of frown, one that had the hint of a smile in it. He dropped the love letters into the designated trash bag.

Sorting the rest of the box was relatively easy until she got to the bottom. The contents of another Ziploc bag made her fist close around it. "Oh..."

Eric peered inside the box. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing. Just..." Memories were flooding her system, of sunny days spent running through grassy fields. Steven's laughter still reached her though his voice was lost to ashes. "Grasshopper," she said to Eric. She yanked the Ziploc bag from the box and opened her fist. On top of her palm, surrounded by plastic, was the grasshopper pendant Steven had bought her.

"Do you want to stop?" Eric said.

"No. He'd want me to do this. It's time." She kissed the pendant through the plastic and gave the Ziploc bag to Eric. "Charity."

He placed the pendant into the correct trash bag with an even and, most importantly, respectful movement. She was grateful. Any contention they'd felt for each other had been burned away long ago, and his patience for her process, his kindness toward her, was healing.

The first box was empty now. They moved onto the second, which mostly contained Steven's clothes—band T-shirts and vests, the strange hippie-inspired stuff he used to wear, and the jeans he wore to pieces. The least ratty items of the bunch were going to charity. Mrs. Forman had agreed to launder them. Jackie couldn't bring herself to do it herself, and they had their own special trash bag. It was decorated with sparkly unicorn stickers.

"Hyde would like what you've done to this," Eric said, indicating the stickered-up trash bag.

"He'd hate it."

"I know. It was gentle sarcasm ... to make you laugh. Maybe."

His eyebrows were doing their waggly thing, but they melted into the inked words of Steven's letter:

_"You deserve a good life, Jackie. Wish I could be the one to give it to you, but I'm doing what I have to so you can have one at all. You gotta understand that. Be pissed at me for as long as you want, but I fucking love you, okay? And I'm not letting shit happen to you."_

She shut her eyes against the emotion consuming her body, but in seconds the heat faded to a tolerable level. "Are you angry, too?" she said and opened her eyes.

Eric's concerned face met her gaze. "About what?"

"Steven ... and your dad. At Steven _about_ your dad?"

"No," he said, "Red's heart was primed and ready to go." His answer came as if he'd thought over her question for years, long before she'd ever asked it. "He stuffed down too much, bottled it up. If learning of Hyde's passing hadn't triggered the attack, something else would have."

"Like learning Fez had fathered Laurie's 'mystery child'?"

He laughed. "Yeah. Like that."

"It's a good thing Fez's wife is so understanding," she said and resumed digging through Steven's clothes. "I don't know if I could marry someone who already had a child, especially an eyelash-plucker like his daughter."

"If it was the right guy, you probably could ... and Hyde did what he thought he had to do."

She pushed out a breath in a slow, heavy puff, as if gravity were crushing her lungs. "I know."

Steven's navy blue vest was in her hands. Her fists clenched it as more of his last written words erupted over her mind:

_"Edna's trouble found me, and it's trying to find_ _you._ _Gonna take care of it before that happens. I might get offed in the process, but they don't know who means the most to me. Not yet. If I'm gone, that'll pay off her debt. They'll quit looking. ... You'll be safe."_

"W.B.'s got them," Eric said. He unclenched her hands and held them. The vest fell onto her lap, but the her mind cooled enough for her to hear him. "They're in prison forever. They're not going anywhere."

She freed her hands from his loose grip. Though she appreciated his intention, she didn't need the reminder. The fact that W.B.'s investigators had found Steven's murderers was something she told herself every morning after she woke and every night before she went to bed. Since their conviction, her last view of Steven stopped searing itself into her daily consciousness.

She'd demanded to see his body eight years ago, when the police had told her what happened. _"There's not much left to see,"_ they said, but she didn't care. A coroner went with her to the county morgue basement, and the acrid smell of burnt flesh made her cough. On a stretcher toward the back was a sheet-covered lump.

A body.

_Steven's._

Jackie ordered that he be uncovered, even as tears clotted her eyelashes. The stench was unbearable, but it matched her grief.

_"You don't want your last image of him to be this,"_ the coroner said. _"Remember him as—"_

_"I said remove the damn sheet!"_ Jackie shouted. She had to be sure that this was her Steven deprived of his life, that he wasn't hiding somewhere, waiting until he could reunite with her.

The coroner did as she asked, and the sight on the stretcher scorched Jackie's heart into a blackened thing. Steven's charred body was frozen in torment. Firemen had contained the blaze before it could destroy all of him, and despite the damage done to his face, she recognized it as his.

"Sometimes," she said to Eric now, with a voice crushed by her throat, "I wish I could burn those bastards the same way they burnt Steven. Make them lose everything we've lost because of them."

"Me, too." He took the vest off her lap and stuffed it into the stickered-up trash bag. "But we can't let them take the rest of us. They're not worth it."

"They're worth _nothing._ "

She picked through the rest of Steven's clothes without much thought or care. She cast his frayed jackets and hole-riddled socks at Eric, and he put them in the bag for junking. His latest frown seemed full of worry, though, and she paused.

"I don't think much about them," she said, "not anymore. But considering what we're doing today, you can understand..."

"Of course."

"Good." She flung a black shirt at him, and it accidentally hit his face.

"Wait," he said after uncrumpling the shirt.

"What?"

He reached behind himself and grabbed his shopping bag. He removed a thick, wooden picture frame from it. "I was thinking that maybe you could save this one thing."

She began to object then spotted the image of an angel on his lap. The shirt was the one Steven had given for her seventeenth birthday.

_"That's Icarus,"_ Steven had told her ten years ago. The man on the shirt looked like an angel to her with his large, feathery wings, but Steven insisted he wasn't. _"Icarus flew too close to the sun, burned his wings, and crashed into the ocean. He didn't make it out. The shirt always reminded me not to get too cocky."_

Her eyes narrowed. _"Are you trying to tell me something?"_

_"Yeah, but not what you're thinkin'. The painting Zeppelin borrowed that guy from is actually of Apollo, Greek god of the sun. But Zeppelin reinterpreted it."_

_"Well, I'm reinterpreting it, too,"_ she said. _"It's an angel."_

He smiled at her then and cupped her chin, _"Suits me fine. Angel's wearin' an angel,"_ and before she could react to his rare, verbal affection, he kissed her into a stupor.

Eric was smoothing the shirt somewhat nervously over his knees, and the memory of Steven's kiss vanished. She traced her thumb over the angel's feet.

"My mom," Eric said, "has both my dad's navy uniform and one of his work shirts framed up in her room. I thought you might want—"

"I do."

She needed say nothing more. He set to work folding up the shirt and putting it into the picture frame. "Where should I hang it?" he said afterward.

"I'll show you."

They abandoned the last of Steven's boxes for the living room. She chose the space above her sound system, and Eric hammered two nails into the wall. He did a decent job of it, too. The nails weren't bent by the time he finished.

"Good work, Forman. Your dad would be proud."

"You know, he probably would be. I didn't make Swiss-cheese out of the wall."

Together, they put the heavy picture frame on the nails. They straightened the frame then stood back. The shirt's angel graced the glass front, but it was Steven's heart on display, his love.

"Now _that_ ," Eric said, "is something Hyde really would like."

"Yeah..." she slid her arm around his back, "he would."

* * *

Jackie's neighborhood of East Town was more modern than Eric's, filled with skyscrapers and big-time businesses, but Eric preferred the cozier Bay View area. His south-side neighborhood had a small-town feel and reminded him of Point Place. But Jackie belonged here among the towering buildings and crowds of bustling people. Unlike him, she didn't get lost in all the steel and concrete. She maneuvered through it like some kind of superhero, like Superman soaring above it all. He hoped, though, that he was a decent Fortress of Solitude for her, a safe place where she could shed her cape and just be.

They were standing in front of her apartment building. Cars zoomed by on the street, and trucks chugged their loads, and Jackie said, "So where're you taking me?"

"Don't worry. I'll 'wow' you," he said, and she laughed. In many of their phone conversations, whenever he had something interesting to share, her response was always, _"You better wow me, or I'll hang up before you finish,"_ but she never hung up. "We don't even need to take a cab," he continued. "It's—"

"I'm not getting my car out of the garage again."

He clasped her shoulder. "Where we're going is within walking distance. Trust me, Burkhart. Okay?"

Her eyebrows rose, and her bottom lip pushed into her upper one. It was a look of incredulity ... and a veneer. She didn't like expressing her true feelings when they were positive. Her excitement and enjoyment were usually masked by indifference or disdain, a defense mechanism he understood all too well. It had been Hyde's _modus operandi,_ and Eric learned long ago how to see through it—just like he saw through Jackie now. She wasn't skeptical but curious.

He led her down the crowded East Mason Street, and they eventually came to the Milwaukee Art Museum. She didn't balk as they entered the grand concourse or at paying the admission. In fact, she was uncharacteristically silent, as if waiting for him to explain himself.

"I bring my students here every year for a field trip," he said, "during the Greek mythology section."

"You've brought me on a field trip?"

"Sort of?"

His answer didn't seem to please her, but once they arrived at the Greek pottery exhibit, her attitude shifted. He explained to her the significance of the figures on each amphora and bowl, going into more detail than he would have for his eighth graders. She grew especially curious when he went into the origin of the Greek gods and goddesses, how some of them—like Aphrodite—might have been borrowed from other cultures, like Phoenician or Etruscan. This was college-level information, and her questions prompted a font of his analyses and conclusions.

She listened intently as he went on, and the smile that occasionally appeared was one of intrigue. The image would go well with their phone conversations. He always imagined her face growing slack and her fingers twisting her hair in boredom, but now he knew for sure their mythology discussions had the opposite effect.

"Forman, you should really be teaching this stuff," she said outside the museum. They were walking at a comfortable small-town pace, not the big-city hustle she had to be used to.

"I do teach this stuff," he said.

"Not like that. The kids in your classes would fall asleep or riot if you went into how Zeus derived from the Indo-European _Dyeus_ —"

" _Proto_ -Indo-European."

"Whatever. You need minds primed and ready for everything you've got stored in your skull." She tapped his temple. "You're a lot smarter than you look."

"Thanks." He stifled a chuckle. So much else had changed, but Jackie's version of a compliment was the same as ever.

"Seriously," she said, "you should consider getting your PhD."

He pointed to the sky, slightly overcast, then down East Michigan Street. "We better get moving. Looks like rain."

"No rain. The pressure's not low enough."

She was right. The pressure felt pretty high with her eyes staring at him. She had to know he was avoiding the topic of continuing his education. Certain opportunities weren't available to him, and some never had been. Circumstances beyond his control had altered the course of his life. Same thing had happened to his father when the auto-parts plant was shut down. A guy like Eric needed to go with the flow and not swim against the current.

"Fine, let's move," Jackie said, and her piercing gaze was off him. "We can eat at Marla's Diner."

Her pace sped into a big-city rush down East Michigan Street. Her brown hair fanned out behind her, and her high heels struck the pavement with resounding clacks. She probably walked this way at the television studio, intimidating interns and execs alike.

Eric widened his strides to keep up, but he'd never been intimidated by her—and he never would be. Growing up with a sister like Laurie had prepared him for thorny women. And though Jackie had a sharp wit, she was harmless. At least to him.

She also knew her way around Marla's Diner. The host waved her in cheerfully and said, "Anywhere you like," and Jackie brought Eric to a quiet booth in the back. She didn't bother browsing the hundred-page menu, but he got caught somewhere between _From the Griddle_ and _Burgers and Sandwiches._

"Just have breakfast for dinner," she said. "You know you want to."

"You're right."

"I usually am."

A busboy brought two glasses of water to their table, and their waitress followed him. She had a tightly-pulled ponytail and thick accent, and she took Jackie's order without Jackie saying a word. "Village salad with oil and balsamic vinegar?" the waitress said, and Jackie nodded. "And you, sir?"

"Challah French Toast and real maple syrup, please," Eric said. "None of that Aunt Jemima stuff. I'll pay the extra dollar."

Jackie leaned toward him after the waitress left. "Splurging?"

"Mom spoiled me. Can't stand artificial syrup." He drummed his fingers on the table. A question had risen in his mind, but he was unsure if he should ask it.

"Out with it, Forman," she said.

He stilled his hand. "How often do you come here?"

"Every Friday. Lunch with Billy and Cam—he's the meteorologist under me."

Billy was William Edwards, an anchor at her station. He'd been there a thousand years, an elder statesman of the news. Eric knew plenty about him, how he'd mentored Jackie at the start of her on-air career. This _Cam_ fella, however … "'Under you' how?"

She smacked Eric's wrist. "Not like that, you pig. I don't date people from work. He reports during the late-night broadcasts, and he takes over for me at the studio when I'm shooting on location. You know, during big weather events."

"Oh," he said and exhaled forcefully, releasing the stale breath he'd held hostage. "Good."

She quirked up an eyebrow, not for the first time that day. Apparently, it was her method of letting him know he'd said something stupid.

"What I mean is," he continued, "'Good,' as in, 'Good that you have someone to take over for you.'"

"Good," she parroted back, but he had no idea how she meant it. Had she bought his cover? Probably not. "So..." she said, "how are Donna and Jean doing?"

"Fantastic. Wonderful." He grabbed his glass of water, and he swirled it around before taking a sip. "Gestating kid number two."

She gasped and reached for his hand. "Donna's pregnant again? I'll have to send her something!" She was tapping his fingers, but her excitement appeared to fade, and she withdrew from him. "I'm sorry. I just—"

"No, it's okay. I'm happy for her."

"Yeah," she gritted her teeth in imitation of him, "you look real 'happy'."

He let out the chuckle he'd smothered earlier. "No, I really am, but a little bitterness will always be there. A little Dark Side of the Force."

"Oh, God ... did you have to?"

"I did," he said, "especially considering what happened..."

Four years ago, Donna had won a journalism fellowship in Paris. Eric was supposed to go with her, to teach English to students in a French high school. He'd become fluent in the language during his time in Africa, in Cameroon where both French and English were spoken. But he couldn't leave his mom. Grief had sunk her into a depression. She'd already lost her husband and her foster son, and Eric feared his own absence would kill her.

Donna broke up with him over his choice. They were in his childhood bedroom, where so many developments in their relationship had happened. _"I love you,"_ she'd said, _"but it's not enough. Eric, I've sacrificed so much, deferring college a year, and then you took that year in Africa. ... I can't do it anymore. Hyde's life was burned away, and I can't act as if I'm in the grave with him."_

_"I get it. I understand,_ " Eric said, and he did understand her need to leave for Paris. " _But after everything we've been through, no matter where we go—together or apart—we're always together in some way, aren't we? Because when my heart beats, Donna, it's not beating alone. You can't tell me yours is—_ "

" _I know I'm not being fair,"_ she said with a tear-choked voice, _"but you'll always choose your family first."_

_"You're my family, too. Come on!"_ He picked up a picture from his nightstand. It showed them together, laughing and happy, on the Vista Cruiser's hood, but all her faith in him seemed to be gone. Despite his protests, she ended things. He'd held out hope she'd come around, but then she started dating Jean, the French artist.

"I tried to talk sense into her," Jackie said as their order arrived. Her village salad was a colorful mix of chicken, vegetables, and lettuce. His French toast was no slouch, either. The fluffy bread smelled like cinnamon. "Actually, more like I tried to yell sense into her. I told her how blessed she was that you were alive, that you would wait for her—even if she was gone for years—because that's what people in love do. If Steven were still alive, I would've waited for him until my dying breath. If that's all we had left to share, I would have waited."

Her hands snatched up the oil and balsamic vinegar dispensers, and she flavored her salad with a vigor that couldn't have been from hunger. "Donna should have waited for you," she went on. "Steven would've put his life on hold for Mrs. Forman, just like you did, and I wouldn't have punished him for it. Maybe demanded some compensation-jewelery, but you sacrificed a lot for your mom." She stabbed a slice of chicken with her fork. "Donna's an idiot."

He stifled his laughter again. Jackie's passion for those she cared about amazed him, but he'd been blind to its existence until Hyde's death. Hyde used to gripe about her "spouting off" that he "needed to work toward being happy," but he secretly appreciated her pushes. Eric understood that now, and Hyde—more often than not—listened to her, too.

"So," Eric said, "you don't think I'm a 'mama's boy' for still living with my mom?"

"You're not living with her," she said. "You're living _together_ ... in a supportive, non-oedipal sort of way. In Italy, a lot of families don't separate just because the children become adults. They add onto their houses as the adult children make the family bigger—by getting married, having kids of their own." She extended her hand to him, and he grasped it. "You have nothing to feel ashamed of, okay? You have a full-time job and a life outside the house. Maybe if Mrs. Forman were still cutting the crusts off your sandwiches—"

"She still does sometimes..." he drew back his hand for fear of his safety, "but it's really for her."

She gave him a smirk, so much like Hyde's had been. "Of course it is."

* * *

In the cool Milwaukee night, Eric walked Jackie back to her building. Their pace was moderately fast, but he wasn't ready to let her go. Watching a laughably bad movie together would've been nice, especially on her sizable television, but their friendship in no way included casual, in-person time. He'd been lucky enough to get this Saturday with her.

He prepared himself for a quick goodbye, to slip into the lobby and slip out with his bags, but she hesitated outside the lobby's glass doors. "Thanks, Eric," she said. "For everything today."

"You're more than welcome." He rocked on his heels a little, a bad habit from childhood. "I guess I'll see you in another eight years?"

"No."

"Another sixteen?"

"I'll call you," she said. "We'll do something."

"In thirty-two years?"

"Shut it, Forman," she said, but she was also laughing, "and give me a second." Her hair did its fanning-out thing, and her heels did their clacky thing as she strode into her building. She greeted the doorman with a brief but kind smile before giving him instructions. The doorman nodded, opened the package closet, and removed the trash bags containing Hyde's things.

Jackie held open one of the lobby's doors for the doorman, who passed the trash bags off to Eric. "Here you go, sir."

"Thanks," Eric said and brought the bags to the street corner. That doorman was a lucky bastard, seeing Jackie every day, but the sentiment that flitted through Eric's mind like dust. It barely registered; nevertheless, envy simmered beneath his skin. He did his best to cool off during the cab ride home, going over how different in-person Jackie was to his long-imagined idea of her.

She'd rid herself of Hyde's belongings today, but certain gestures of hers and verbal expressions she used were all him, absorbed into her body. Even calling Eric by his last name, _Forman,_ was partly in tribute to Hyde, but Eric didn't mind. He missed Hyde, too. Every damn day.

Eric had eventually started calling her _Burkhart_ in return, but his reason was different than hers. _Eric_ and _Jackie_ had too much animosity between them, too much misunderstanding. But Forman and Burkhart could become friends, and they had. She slipped up sometimes, though, calling him by his first name. Usually, it happened in moments of overwhelming emotion. She'd done it today when they were sorting through Hyde's boxes and at the doors of her building. She also tended to call him _Eric_ whenever he managed to make her laugh.

He liked making her laugh.

The cab dropped him off in front of his house, and he carried the trash bags into the living room. His mom welcomed his arrival cheerfully. She was sitting on the couch and patching up a shirt, but at least she was alone. Aunt Paula would've tried to get into Jackie's private business.

"How was it?" his mom said.

"Nice." He left the trash bags in front of the coffee table and shrugged off his backpack. "Tough, but nice. She went through Hyde's things. She's finally letting him go."

"As much she as can." His mom stopped sewing and held up the shirt.

The shirt was black, over-sized, and had Pink Floyd's _Dark Side of the Moon_ prism on the front. It was also his favorite, a birthday present from Hyde half a lifetime ago. " _So you'll finally have somethin' cool in your closet,_ " Hyde said.

Eric lent it back to him three years later, when Hyde moved in with Eric's family. At the time, Hyde had so little of his own to wear, and Eric never got around to taking it back. Not until Hyde's death.

Eric had worn it to pieces since then. His mom was constantly mending the holes, but this would be the last time. He intended to frame the shirt the same as he'd done to Jackie's.

"Do you need anything?" he said.

"No, honey. I'm fine."

"Then I'll call it a night. I have a full day of papers to grade tomorrow." He picked up his backpack and unzipped it, and he pulled out a photo, an autographed one of Jackie. He slid it onto the coffee table. "For Aunt Paula."

His mom glanced at the photo. "Oh, isn't that sweet? She'll appreciate that."

"Hope so. 'Night, Mom. I love you." He kissed her on the cheek and vanished upstairs.

Once his bedroom door was locked, he removed a folded and taped-up letter from his pants pocket. He sat down on his bed with it and flattened the paper over his thigh. This was the letter Hyde sent him before running into the depths of hell, Hyde's last communication.

Eric knew what the letter said, but reading Hyde's words in Hyde's own handwriting brought his friend back to life, if only for a brief moment.

He skipped over the parts about himself, about what he meant to Hyde. He couldn't risk wetting the letter with tears, weakening the paper further and smearing the ink. He went straight to the bottom, to the part about Jackie:

_"I need you to be there for her, man, like you were for me. You were right when you said she makes me happy. She deserves the same—even if I'm not the one to do it. Give her whatever help you can. You'll be surprised at what she can give back."_

"I'm doing my best, Hyde," Eric said, and his fingers ran over Hyde's words. "Doing what she'll let me."


	3. Vestigial Organs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** _That '70s Show_ copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC.

CHAPTER THREE  
**VESTIGIAL ORGANS**

Jackie's voice reached past Eric's skin as she described the percentage of precipitation in the air. His mind was barely awake. Lazy summer mornings were just that, _lazy,_ but his body responded to her vibrantly. The tiny hairs on the nape of his neck stood up, and blood was rushing away from his brain. Her subtle flirtation with the camera, the tilt of her head, the warm smile in her eyes ... the woman knew how to draw in her viewers.

He put his bowl of Corn Pops down on the coffee table. Letting so much sugar go uneaten was a shame, but Aunt Paula's vast living room suddenly felt cramped. He shut off the television and stood from the couch. He had to walk this off. He couldn't have these feelings for her, not for _her._

Three months had passed since he'd helped Jackie let go of Hyde's things. In that time, they'd spent every other Saturday together. Six in total, and in between they spoke on the phone several days throughout the week. But his thoughts increasingly went to her when he was alone, remembering her laughter or her platonic but tender touches.

Trouble was brewing inside him, so on his third non-Jackie Saturday he accepted a date with a single mother. They'd met at the Pick'n Save earlier that day and flirted over canned vegetables. In the evening, they ate together at a café. Later still, they went to her place. Her kid was at a friend's house, and they were good to go. Desperate, he followed Kelso's old advice: fool around and the feelings will come.

But this date was like all the others he'd been on since Donna left—unfulfilling. The woman was shapely with a self-deprecating sense of humor, which he liked, but he couldn't manufacture chemistry. Unless his heart was involved, his body simply went through the motions.

His heart was certainly involved with Jackie, though, or maybe his veins had tangled up and sent messages to the wrongs parts of him. He'd never betray Hyde by fostering deeper emotions for her. She was Hyde's girl until the end, but if she ever fell in love again someday, it wouldn't be with Eric.

Those sobering thoughts—and his pacing—had done the trick. Jackie drained out of his mind, but his body needed some morning relief. At least his mom and aunt were off on a week-long cruise. They wouldn't walk in on him if he forgot to lock his door.

* * *

Jackie's hair was perfectly curled into loose waves. They framed her face, complimenting her barely-there makeup. She preferred a heavier application with bolder colors, but trying different approaches was important. Her features were stunning on their own anyway, as was her body, but she couldn't walk around naked. She'd cause a riot.

To clothe and enhance her natural beauty, she'd chosen her favorite flared-leg, butt-hugging jeans. These were paired with a black tank top and a translucent, shimmery blouse. Her appearance seemed more girl-next-door than glamorous, but the effort to achieve it had been the same.

She'd prepared harder than she probably should have for this date. Especially since it wasn't a date-date but a "play date" with Eric. He'd suggested they spend this Saturday trying out his new computer game. She'd never been interested in that kind of thing, but he convinced her this one was different, a game she might actually enjoy. He hadn't steered her wrong yet, and she approached his patio with excitement stirring in her chest.

Pink and and purple morning glories filled Mrs. Forman's window boxes. Jackie had little chance to admire them, though, because Eric flung open the door after she rang the doorbell.

"Hot," he said, as if he were surprised. It was August, and today's temperature would reach a toasty seventy-nine degrees. "Why are—is it so damn hot out here?"

"Heat wave," she said, "but we should finally get some rain tonight to relieve it."

"Great ... good! Do you want some iced tea, some lemonade?"

"Sure, after you let me inside."

"Right!" He stepped away from the door, and she entered the foyer. "Lemonade?" He shut the door behind her then bounced back to her side. "Iced tea? Water? Whatever you want."

"How about you relax? You're acting like you have a gerbil in your shorts—and _why_ shorts, Forman? God, don't tell me the air conditioner is on the fritz."

"No, it's fine. We're trying to save money on electricity—"

"In the middle of August?"

"—so I'm keeping the AC on low instead of full-blast. It'll be a little warm but no sweat..." He chuckled. "Get it? 'No sweat' because..."

She clamped her mouth shut and sucked in a breath through her nose. His humor could be terribly corny, but it was usually endearing, too. Not today. Today, she felt like pinching him.

"I've got a fan in my room we can use," he said. "I'll go turn it on—"

"Yeah, about that..." she grasped his shoulders to keep him from scampering off, "what is _wrong_ with you?"

"Wrong?" His expression froze, like she'd trained a shotgun on him, but a second later he broke into a grin. "That's a quandary scientists around the world have been trying to solve for ages, but so far they've come up empty. I doubt we'll figure it out in a few hours."

She laughed in spite of herself and let him go. "You're a dipshit."

"Thank you."

"Iced tea, please," she said. "And your shoulders really have filled out, huh? They didn't slice into my hands."

"Basketball. Played it regularly with the faculty of Point Place High, and I've gotten the same thing started at Latham Sholes. We have bi-monthly tournaments with the students."

He walked deeper into the living room, and she followed him past the couch. Its persimmon color had grown on her the last few months, and her palm skimmed over the knobby bouclé upholstery "Does your team ever win?" she said.

"About fifty-fifty."

They went into the hallway and arrived at the lemon-yellow kitchen. It was sizable and contained both a refrigerator-freezer combo and a separate freezer for storing food. Mrs. Forman made meals in bulk for Eric when she wasn't home. He'd seemed ashamed of this fact when he first told Jackie about it: " _I can whip up spaghetti and season a steak decently, but cooking makes her happy, so I quit trying to stop her._ "

_"_ _I think it's sweet,_ _"_ Jackie had said back, _"and I'm a little jealous. I'd love to have a mom who forced good food on me instead of begging for money to buy booze."_

Eric's shame seemed to deepen then, but he bucked up after a reassuring pat on his arm and an encouraging, _"It's okay, Forman. We've all got to play the cards we're dealt. You're allowed to enjoy your pair of kings."_

She really had no problem with his living situation—and liked digging through his freezer. Occasionally she'd swipe one of Mrs. Forman's premade meals, with Eric's permission of course. Something else resided inside that freezer, though. Something Mrs. Forman couldn't seem to stop buying, despite that the '70s were long gone and the '80s were almost over.

"Iced tea coming up," Eric said and pulled two glasses from a cabinet.

"You know what," Jackie twirled her finger at the separate freezer, "I've changed my mind. I'll have a Popsicle instead."

"What flavor?"

"Grape," she said. _Steven's favorite._

Eric opened the freezer, rummaged around, and plucked out a Popsicle. She unwrapped it, and white smoke rose off the purple ice. The cold would feel wonderful on her tongue, but she stared at the Popsicle instead of tasting it.

"What?" he said. "Does it smell bad?" He had an orange Popsicle in his hand, and he took a lick.

"No, no, it's just ... are you still in love with Donna?"

The orange Popsicle fell from his fingers and smashed apart on the floor. She hadn't meant to ask the question. In fact, she hadn't even been thinking about it. She'd been picturing trashing the grape Popsicle and asking Eric for a lime one, her favorite flavor.

"Part of me is," he said and ripped a few paper towels off a roll. He bent down and picked up the broken Popsicle. "Part of me always will be, but it's not an active love." He looked up at her. "It's more like a vestigial organ that has no use anymore."

"Mm-hmm," she said sincerely. Her hand was cramping from its grip on the grape Popsicle.

"Took me a while to let go of her ... the _idea_ of her." He stood up and dumped the broken Popsicle into the garbage pail.

"When did that happen, after she got engaged to Jean?"

"When baby number one was announced."

She raised the purple Popsicle to her lips. "Simone."

"Yup. Simone." He stepped toward her and touched the back of her hand. "You're shaking."

She glanced down at the Popsicle. The fist holding it was indeed trembling. "I'm cold."

"In this hot kitchen? Burkhart, what's really going on?"

"I..." Her breath shortened. Her ribs had become curved blades, threatening to slice through what was left of her heart. "Eric, I don't want grape."

"So don't have grape."

"I want lime."

"So have lime." He opened the freezer again and brought out another Popsicle. He gestured for her to give up the grape one. "Hyde would be the first guy to tell you to toss it."

He was right. She passed the grape Popsicle into his waiting hand, and he gave her the lime one in exchange. Its tart flavor suited her taste, but guilt turned the flavor bitter until he said, "You're allowed to enjoy it. Doesn't have to be torture."

She rolled her shoulders. Her body was so tense. After eight years, she should've been able to eat a stupid piece of ice without guilt. "Too much effort," she said and dropped the Popsicle into the garbage.

"Today." He removed a pitcher of iced tea from the fridge and filled up the two glasses. "You'll get there ... hey."

She was crying. _Damn it,_ she was freakin' crying. Over a Goddamn Popsicle.

Eric touched her back lightly, as if he were afraid to do more, but she eased her arms around his waist and laid her head against his chest. He embraced her fully then; he had so much more strength than she remembered. His body was still lean and nothing like Steven's, but that was a good thing. She didn't want even a hint of feeling like Steven were comforting her.

In the time since his passing, the few guys she'd dated were pale imitations of him. They'd all had broad shoulders and a tough exterior, a cocky smirk and a love for hard rock. Eric, on the other hand, couldn't imitate Steven if his life depended on it. But he did share one vital thing with him that those other men didn't: a kind heart.

"Even the smallest step forward is a step forward," Eric said. He was rubbing her back in wide circles; Steven had always done it in an up-and-down, zigzag motion, but Eric's technique wasn't bad. "How about we go upstairs and leave this Popsicle unpleasantness behind?"

"Are you propositioning me?" she said, laughing. He'd added a Victorian affect to his voice, which never failed to amuse her.

He pulled away and looked her in the eyes. His green ones caught the kitchen light and brightened his whole face. "Why, yes. Yes, I am. We've got a game to play, woman." He pointed a finger into the air. "We must hie us hence to the Amiga!"

"'Hie us hence?'" she mouthed to herself, but she took his hand as he led her from the kitchen.

* * *

Jackie was holding Eric's hand.

She'd never done that before, not for an extended period of time. Her palm's presence beneath his fingers heated his brain, same as Donna's used to do. He wanted to let go, to keep the heat from coursing through his blood and traveling where it didn't belong. He should have let go—for Hyde—but Jackie needed the connection right now.

Upstairs in his room, she squeezed his hand tighter. Hyde's Pink Floyd shirt was framed on the wall, unmissable in its special place above Eric's futon. Remarkably, this was her first time in his room. He'd kept it off limits, mainly because of his mini-shrine. He didn't want it to trigger her. Displayed around the shirt were pictures from childhood, depicting Eric and Hyde at their happiest.

He'd warned Jackie about it over the phone a few days ago, and she insisted she'd be fine. She certainly appeared to be. Her hand loosened on him until it dropped away, and she approached his computer.

The Amiga was whirring on his desk. Eric had booted up his new game a half-hour before she got here, to make sure it was ready and working. Its lounge-act theme music beeped through the speaker, and he and Jackie sat at the desk together.

" _Leisure Suit Larry 2,_ " she read off the computer monitor, " _Larry Goes Looking For Love (in Several Wrong Places)._ " The game's red titles were blazoned across the screen while the pixelated face of Larry popped at various points. "Is this," she turned her head toward Eric, "a sex game?"

"No, it's an adventure game."

He grasped the computer mouse and demonstrated how the game worked. The introductory sequence seemed to draw Jackie in. Larry was mowing the lawn of a one-night stand, Eve—but Eve didn't remember who Larry was, eliciting a "Pathetic," from Jackie. By the end of the opening puzzles, however, Larry both won a free cruise and became accidentally involved in a KGB plot.

"So we're supposed to help him have sex?" Jackie said.

"Eventually ... and to keep him from getting killed." He offered her the mouse, and she accepted. "You saw what I did at the beginning. Just click Larry where you want him to go, and I'll type in whatever commands you tell me."

"Okay."

She plunged into the game with gusto, and after an hour, Eric felt like applauding. Her logic skills were impressive. She'd led Larry to his death a few times but never the same way twice. She understood how some puzzles were time-sensitive, that Larry had to hide sometimes when other characters were on the screen. And by the time she led Larry to his weirdest demise yet—death by dominatrix—she burst out laughing.

"What is the purpose of his life?" she said.

"To have sex and _not_ die," he said.

"Oh, my God ... this is Fez in a video game."

"You're right!" He started to laugh, too. "Wait, wait ... just imagine if what we're doing here was actually happening to Fez right now."

She covered her mouth. "Oh, no. It means he's died by being shot, drinking poison, and..."

"Being handcuffed to a bed and being whipped repeatedly by a dominatrix."

"Poor Fez," she said.

He nodded solemnly. "Poor Fez."

She retook the mouse and continued playing. Her laughter faded into sporadic giggles, but the moment slapped all mirth from Eric's skull. They'd been joking about death; specifically, about the hypothetical deaths, _plural,_ of their friend. It wasn't something he ever imagined doing, especially not with her. But despite her stress over the Popsicle earlier, she'd clearly begun to heal.

This fact was further evidenced when, twenty minutes later, she blurted, "This is fun!"

It was her first open admission of enjoying herself—with him, at least—since their friendship started seven years ago. His pulse tightened, but he wouldn't ruin the occasion by drawing her attention to her confession. He offered to make them some lunch instead.

"Sandwiches?" she said without looking from the monitor.

"It's the one thing I do well."

She glanced at him. "You do a lot of things well, Forman."

He left the room with a warm, buzzy feeling in his stomach. It remained with him in the kitchen and grew stronger when he returned to the bedroom. He'd made a turkey sandwich on a roll for her, a ham sandwich on rye bread for himself, and brought two fresh glasses of iced tea.

"Thank you," she said. Her blouse was completely unbuttoned, and she placed it on the back of her chair. A thin, black tank top covered her breasts and stomach, leaving her arms, shoulders, and neck exposed. "That's better. That fan of yours is weak."

"I know. I call her _Old Rattler._ Had her back in..." His words evaporated at the sight of Jackie's skin. On his patio, her casually put-together look had stunned him. He was used to her in full hair and makeup, even when they could grab only some coffee for a half-hour. But now she was herself without artifice. That was how he preferred his women, no-fuss natural. Had she guessed that about him? Gone casual on his behalf?

He scrapped the prospect from his mind. Her manner of dress had to be a coincidence. Heat did nothing good to makeup and hair, and today's weather called for a light touch. Regardless of her reasons, he shouldn't have cared about them ... or been fantasizing about kissing the sweat off her bare neck.

"You had her back in...?" She urged him to finish his sentence.

"Never had you—I mean, _her—_ I mean..." He crammed half his sandwich into his fumbling mouth. He'd had the fan since middle school, he meant to say. Its familiar rattles and clicks soothed him while he fell asleep, but who needed fans right now? Jackie was a beautiful woman, and he was a guy, and nature—along with reality—were against him.

She gazed at him over her shoulder with half-closed eyes and pursed lips. She looked both silly and alluring at the same time, and he didn't know what to make of it.

"Come on, Forman," she said and broke from her strange pose, "lighten up. You don't think I know how attractive I am? I was voted _Most Likely to Cause Another Trojan War_ by my Greek Lit. class in college."

He swallowed too-big a bite of sandwich. It slid down his throat painfully, but his shock was too much gulp down. "You studied Greek literature?"

"Had to. Northland College required us to be 'well-rounded' and to take classes in other disciplines like the humanities. It was either Greek Literature or Faulkner. For the record, I enjoyed _The Odyssey_ more than _The Iliad._ I related to Penelope."

"Pitting one-hundred-and-eight suitors against one another..."

Her focus hadn't moved from the computer screen, and she clicked Larry through a jungle. "I pitted two against each other once."

_Hyde and Kelso._ Eric remembered the time well. He'd found it perplexing that two of his best friends were fighting over Jackie, of all people, but he also appreciated her reasoning. They'd both screwed with her heart, and she was screwing with them back. She'd deserved respect and trust back then, just as she deserved it now.

"I think you're hot, okay?" he said and experienced an odd sensation, as if he could see the words leaving his lips. The letters marched on the air between him and Jackie and charged into her ears. "And not sweaty-hot but _hot_ -hot. There, I said it..." He shut his eyes. "Do what you will."

A warm hand landed on his knee. "About time," she said. "I was wondering if you were gay."

His eyes popped open. "What?"

"Well, Donna _is_ mannish. I thought maybe you were suppressing your true orientation and going for the next best thing."

He began to cough, choking not on sandwich but what Jackie was saying.

"I made a lot of gay friends back in college," she continued, "and some of their stories about trying to fit in and not lose their parents' love were heartbreaking. With your dad gone, I thought it would be easier for you to come out—"

"I'm not gay!" He pushed her patronizing hand off his knee and stood up. "I like girls—women, all right?"

"Steven told me you liked it when Buddy Morgan kissed you."

"He told you..." His spine stiffened. She was provoking him on purpose, something Hyde would've done. But Eric had plenty of practice dishing it back out. "Yeah, I liked it. The best kiss I've ever had, and I've been chasing that high ever since. His tongue felt so good in my—"

"Ew, stop! Stop!" Laughter poured out of her, and she put up her hands. "I give."

He sat down again amid her cackles. She was so different today, so much more relaxed and playful. "Do you really think I'm gay?"

"No..." She wiped tears of amusement from her eyes. "But I do have a lot of gay friends, and I was curious why you never acted like you were attracted to me. _All_ straight men are attracted to me, no matter how platonic the relationship."

His mouth dropped open a little. The famous Burkhart ego had reared its arrogant head. " _All_ straight men? Wow."

"I know," she said. "It's a cross I've learned to bear with grace."

He picked up his sandwich again, but his stomach had begun to ache. A bathroom visit was definitely on the agenda. Had to be the rye bread. "So, this won't make things awkward between us, the fact that I think you're..." he cleared his throat, "hot?"

"Things were getting awkward between us because I thought you _didn't_ think I was hot."

"Logical." He bit into the sandwich, heedless of the cranky grumble from his stomach. "Do you think _I'm_ hot?" he said, but he was chewing. It sounded more like, "D'yoo fing _mm_ -hob?"

She arched an eyebrow before returning to the game. He took that as a no, but he felt some relief. If "all straight men" were attracted to Jackie Burkhart, then his attraction to her was a generic, non-specific affliction. Hyde couldn't frog him from beyond the grave for that. Eric's physical feelings weren't his fault.

_"What about the deeper ones, Forman?"_ Hyde said inside Eric's mind. Guilt had conjured his voice. _"What're you gonna do about those?"_

"They don't exist,"

Eric thought back, but his stomach argued against him. The pressure in it needed release, and he let loose a silent but nose-rotting fart.

"Uh-oh..." He leapt to his feet and rushed to his bookshelf. He had a box of large kitchen matches stashed there, in case of emergencies such as this, and he lit three matches at once.

He let the flame blaze a while, to burn the wood and produce a stronger odor, and Jackie shouted, "What are you doing?"

"Protecting your nose from evil."

"Put them out! Now!" She yanked herself close to Eric's desk. Her hands were clutching it, white-knuckled.

"Sorry, sorry!" He waved matches in the air, and the flames went out. They were replaced by gray, stench-covering smoke, but the damage had been done. Jackie was cowering by his computer.

"I hate thinking his last moments were in that fire," she said with an anguished breath. "He was trying to protect me, and whenever I see..." She covered her mouth with her fist, and tears shone at the corners of her eyes. "Did he lose consciousness after they shot him? Or was he awake as the fire consumed the warehouse? Did he feel his skin burn away? Did he scream?"

Eric put the used matches down on the shelf. "Jackie, don't do this—"

"I can't help it!" She was crying now, and her voice rose in volume with each word. "Here I am having fun, _ha-ha-ha,_ while he'll never get to do anything ever again. It isn't fair. He should be here, Eric. He should be here!"

"I know." He approached her hesitantly, and when she didn't shy away, he covered one of her white-knuckled hands on the desk. "My mom told me once, before we moved to Milwaukee, that she was having trouble with the same thing. That she couldn't let go of the idea of my dad not being alive but would try to. Had to try. Otherwise, she might as well have died with him."

"I've been afraid," Jackie said and clutched his palm, "so afraid to enjoy myself without Steven. Like, if I cracked a smile or laughed, I was somehow dishonoring his spirit. That I was saying his love—and the time we had together—didn't mean anything to me anymore."

She curled further into her body, tucking her head down toward her knees, but Eric coaxed her away from the desk. He hated to see her frightened this way, as if she were in that burning warehouse herself, shying away from the flames. He offered his body as a safe haven, and she stood up and entered his open arms.

"My mom and dad had thirty years together," he said, holding her, "but my mom honors my dad's memory by being as happy as she can be. She works at that daycare center now, both as its part-time nurse and general caretaker. She loves little babies and young kids, and of course they love her. They think she's from _Sesame Street._ " He imitated his mom's laugh, " _Ahahahahah!_ " and Jackie's chest bounced against him, as if she'd laughed, too. "She's also very involved in her widow group. She joined one here in Milwaukee. They do a lot of things together, go on trips and hold crafts parties."

"Your mom's happy?" .

"Yeah. I think she is."

"I want to be happy, Eric."

"Hyde would want you to be, too."

She tightened her grip on his back. "I don't know how."

"Sure you do. You just have to make room for it."

Her chin pressed down on his shoulder as if she were nodding, and her hair fuzzed against his cheek. "I have to open my fists. That's what my therapist said. I've been clenching them for eight years to protect myself."

"You don't have to protect yourself anymore. Not from me. I'm a lover, not a fighter."

She pulled away from him at that statement. "Really, Forman? A cliché?"

"I watch a lot of cartoons. Sue me."

"Don't tempt me. I know some good lawyers. I'll have your _Star Wars_ collection in my house like _that._ " She snapped her fingers.

"Then I'll be knocking on your door every day after work to play with them."

"Fine by me. I better call my lawyer to get this started." She headed for his phone.

He stared at her. "You're not serious." But she was pushing buttons on the phone's keypad.

"Hello, Marty?" she said. "Yes, this is Jackie. I have a lawsuit I'd like to file against one Eric Forman. He has no money, so I want all his _Star Wars_ toys as compensation for—"

He dashed to her side and snatched the phone receiver away. "Marty, this is Eric," he said. "We're settling this one out of court—"

"I will have your _Star Wars_ toys, you sonuvabitch!" the voice on the other end said.

Eric's heart, which was already pounding, hit the roof of his mouth. "Fez?"

"That's Fez, _Esquire_ to you."

Eric's breath stopped short, and he felt disoriented as Jackie giggled beside him. "Just talk to him," she said. "It's been some time, hasn't it?"

A lot of time, and once he recovered his senses, he began a catch-up conversation with Fez. Jackie, meanwhile, wrapped her arm around Eric's back and pressed her ear to the other side of the receiver. She interjected sometimes, and through the course of the discussion, he learned that she and Fez had set up this little prank weeks ago.

"Why today?" Eric said.

"The opportunity presented itself," she said. "You told me to sue you—"

"But I could have been a doctor instead of a lawyer," Fez added. "Or a sexy plumber. I was ready for anything. It's nice to hear from you, my friend."

Eric returned the sentiment. Ever since Hyde's death and Donna's abandonment, Eric had fallen out of any meaningful contact with Fez and Kelso—despite that Fez was the father of his nephew. Their group was no longer whole, and the pain of that had proven too much for him. But Jackie never lost contact with their friends, and in a very real way, she was the thread keeping them all connected.

"Thank you," he said once they'd hung up with Fez.

She shook her head, like what he'd said had annoyed her. Then she cupped his chin affectionately and locked eyes with him. "Thank _you._ "


	4. The Swerving Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Disclaimer:** _That '70s Show_ copyright The Carsey-Werner Company, LLC and Twentieth Century Fox Home Entertainment, LLC.

CHAPTER FOUR  
**THE SWERVING ROAD**

Jackie had grown hungry for Eric's presence. Over the last two months, he made her laugh the way no one else alive could, and—perhaps, more importantly—he made her feel _safe_ enough to laugh. In September, she invited him to her Sunday excursions in Lake Park. She preferred Rollerblading to running, and he met her every Sunday morning at seven. His arrival at her building was always without complaint. They greeted each other fondly, and sometimes she slipped in a touch to his shoulder or chest.

After a few pleasantries, they'd skate north to the park. His ease on the Rollerblades matched hers; he could skate backward and do a few tricks. They even considered entering a contest together, but she was too competitive. She'd probably break her leg by choreographing a too-difficult routine, and she wouldn't put her career at risk for a skating trophy.

Eric, however, seemed hooked on the idea. On their fifth Sunday together, he brought her a flyer. "Look," he said, "it's for beginners," as if that would convince her.

"Can't do it, Forman. You still have to go on ramps and rails, and now just isn't the time." Her cheeks flushed. Never in her life had she felt so bashful, but something about Eric brought out her humility. Maybe it was his own self-effacing manner. Her boasting usually bounced off him and smacked her ego to the ground.

"Are you blushing?" he said.

"The October wind has brought out my cheeks' natural rosy glow."

"And?"

"And what?"

He pointed to a lamppost across a rustic footbridge. "You'll tell me why you're really blushing if I beat you there."

"No!" she shouted, but he was already off. She couldn't pass him. His stupid, no-longer scrawny body got in the way, and he grabbed hold of the lamppost on the other side of the bridge. "Fine," she said, slightly out of breath, "I won the AP's Award for Best Weather Cast in Wisconsin yesterday."

"What?"

"The Associated Press. That's why I had to skip our Saturday date yesterday—and why I put on so much makeup this morning. I was up half the night taking interviews."

He clasped her shoulder, and her cheeks grew hotter. "Congratulations! That's terrific!"

"That I have deep circles under my eyes?"

"No, that you won that award. Well-deserved, too. You seem to understand the weather in ways other weather-people don't."

She arced her hand through the air. "Bigger-picture stuff. Knowing what weather patterns resulted in historically helps predict what they'll do now. Too many young meteorologists only look at the present and go by weather-theory instead taking past experience into account, too."

"So that's why Flash Wilson always predicts blizzards in April when what we usually get is a few flurries."

"Yup." She skated from the lamppost, and he skated with her down the paved street. "My career's really hot right now," she said. "I don't want to sabotage myself with a broken bone. But we can find other ways to entertain ourselves."

He grinned. "Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. Like you can join me next Saturday night at W.B.'s house. He's throwing a celebratory dinner party for me. I didn't let him do it for my Emmy, but he insisted for this one. It'll just be family, though. I don't want my colleagues involved. So you can invite your mom and aunt—if she promises to behave herself. Fez and Michael are coming in, too."

Eric's stumbled on his Rollerblades but caught himself. "Not ... Donna?"

"You think she'd fly across the Atlantic for that? Hah. She made her choice four years ago about who her family is."

Jackie sped down the paved street. Her hair must've been shining in the autumn sun, outmatching the brilliant reds and yellows of the surrounding trees. Eric seemed to have trouble keeping up with her, but he wasn't the one she was skating from. It was Donna. Her support in the wake of Steven's death had been cursory at best. In fact, she'd been angry, as if Jackie could've stopped him from making his last, fatal choice.

"You gotta—you gotta give her a break," Eric said and shot past her "She went through a lot, too." He turned around and began to skate backward. "Make sure I don't crash into anyone."

"You won't." She'd watch out for him, but this conversation didn't please her. Letting him smash into a tree would end it, but she wasn't that selfish. "She has no loyalty, Forman," she said and directed him around a jogger. "I understand that she wanted to go to Paris for her career, but why'd she have to dump you in the process? Hasn't she heard of a phone? You could've talked to each other every day. You were taking care of your mom, for God's sake. Do you know what I'd give to hear Steven's voice again?"

Eric dug a hand into his hair, as if what she'd said pained him. "I think that was Donna's problem. Hyde's death scared the hell out of her. She didn't want to miss out on opportunities—" Jackie opened her mouth, but he put up a silencing finger. "She and Hyde were really close. He meant a lot to her, and I didn't know how much until he was gone. He related to her in a way I couldn't. It was like she lost her brother."

"You lost your brother, too, and you didn't let Donna go." She stopped skating by a red-leafed Linden tree, and he stopped with her. "She has no idea what she lost. You're an amazing guy, Eric. You support the people you care about unconditionally; you fight for them and try to make them happy. You also make some stupid mistakes..." she held onto the tree trunk for balance and reached toward him, "but you _know_ that about yourself, too."

She laid a hand on his chest, over his heart. "You always try to do better, Forman. You used to be an annoyance to me, but now..." her face flushed again, "I feel privileged to be your friend."

He said nothing but glided his palm over her hand. The warmth seeping into her skin wasn't an unwelcome sensation.

"Funny thing," she said, mostly to fill up the silence, "or maybe it's just sad, but I never understood why Steven was friends with you."

He remained quiet, but his eyes held her gaze. They were a mix of tenderness and amusement. He'd clearly gotten used to her blunt way of communicating.

"Once he died, that changed," she continued. "It's hard to break free from first impressions. We met when we were children, y'know? You were a spindly, know-it-all, sarcastic geek."

"And you were a bossy, controlling snob," he said, and she smiled.

"I still am, but thanks to Steven, I'm also one who appreciates the true value of good people." She tapped his chest. "You're good people."

"So are you, Burkhart." He grasped her hand and brought it to his lips. Her skin tingled, and her breath hitched as he kissed the back of her fingers. "I feel privileged to be your friend, too ... although you did call our Saturday outings a date. What's that about?"

"Slip of the tongue," she said, but it hadn't been. During the course of the last month, they'd grown more physically comfortable with each other. Hugs between them occurred frequently. She snuggled against him while they watched moves on TV, and they'd developed an affectionate, teasing gesture, which she did now. She poked his cheek before trying to skate away.

He didn't let her. He still had her hand, and his fingers wove between hers. "So that means no _slipping in_ tongue, huh?"

"Ew!" She shook him off her. "You just had to go there."

He smirked his crooked, cute smirk. "I did. I really did."

"That's no way to romance a woman." She skated in front of him then turned around to face him. They'd reversed positions from their previous run—she was the one skating backward now while he skated forward—and she wagged a finger at him. "'Let's have super hot sex, baby!' is not endearing to those with class."

"Man, Donna told you about that?"

"Oh, she told me everything about your relationship."

"Fantastic." He performed a three-sixty on his Rollerblades with more grace than she expected. "So, how does one romance Jackie Burkhart?"

"Expensive jewelry."

"Seriously."

"I am serious." She copied his three-sixty maneuver but turned it into a seven-twenty, double-spin. Fortunately, the pavement was well-maintained and smooth. Had any of her wheels hit a crag, she would've fallen and quite painfully. "To romance me, one has to _know_ me. Know what I like and what I don't. Respect me but also be yourself. I've had fake, Forman. Not interested. But it all has to happen naturally."

She skated to his side and snaked her arm around his back. Their joint Rollerblading was wobbly at first, but they soon slid into an easy rhythm. "If I feel no pull toward a person," she said, "no physical or emotional connection, it'll never happen. No matter what he does to 'woo' me."

"I'll make sure to warn any potential dates of yours."

"Why? You want to set me up with someone?"

"No ... it was just something to say."

She laughed. He really was such a dork, but she hugged him closer as they skated. "So, how does one romance Eric Forman?"

"Be a woman."

"Seriously."

"I am serious." He patted her hip. "This may come as a shock, but I don't get a lot of action."

"Please. Single mothers love you, even the pretty ones who've lost their pregnancy weight."

He shrugged. "Dating the mothers of my students ... the thrill wears off when the class erupts in a chorus of, 'Mr. Forman and Fred's mom sitting in a tree, K.I.S.S.I.N.G.!'"

"Did that really happen?" She tried to contain her giggles but failed.

"Two years ago. I got spanked by the principal—not literally—and my class was switched to a different section of students."

"I'm sorry," she said but knew she didn't sound sorry. She was laughing too hard.

He took her hands and skated in front of her again, backward. "Yeah, that's a sweet girl."

"I'm very sweet."

"Oh, I know," he said and attempted a tricky maneuver. He pulled himself close to her, released one of her hands, and poked her cheek. Miraculously, neither of them dropped to the pavement.

"We really do skate well together," she said.

"That's what I'm saying. We're depriving the Greater Milwaukee Rollerblading Club of our incredible technique."

"They'll live." She freed herself from his grip. She needed some physical distance. His use of the word _technique_ had sparked a feeling deep inside herself, one she didn't know how to process. The idea of touching a man with any sort of romantic intent, one who wasn't Steven, frightened her.

Especially because she wanted to.

* * *

Next Saturday night, Eric arrived at W.B.'s mansion wearing a dress shirt, blazer, and slacks. Jackie had told him the attire for the party was _smart casual,_ and his aunt Paula clued him in on what that meant. She'd attended a lot of fancy parties in her day, and she kept her composure as W.B.'s butler ushered her, Eric, and Eric's mom into the house.

The place looked similar to what he remembered: framed jazz posters on the wall, a few gold records from appreciative music artists. The main difference he spotted was the futuristic, white sectional in the living room. Probably Angie's influence. Eric had been to W.B.'s mansion only a few times since Hyde's death, despite W.B.'s open invitation for him to visit.

The Jackson 5's _Greatest Hits_ was playing on the stereo. Drinks and hors d'oeuvres had been served, and guests were chatting together in various corners of the sprawling living room. Kelso and Fez were laughing at some joke one had told the other, but Jackie stole Eric's focus from them.

A burgundy, off-the-shoulder dress showed off her body tastefully, and she was bouncing a three-year-old boy in her arms. A huge smile brightened her face as the boy twisted his dark fingers in her hair. She pushed his thick, natural hair off his forehead to give him a kiss.

Angie and her husband, Jeff, were standing by, watching with amusement. The boy had to be their son, Stevie, named after Hyde. Last time Eric had seen him, Stevie had just learned how to crawl. He longed to go over to where Stevie and Jackie were now dancing,but W.B. intercepted.

"Welcome, Sigurdson-Forman family," W.B. said and kissed the cheeks of Eric's mom and aunt. He turned to Eric next, offering his hand for Eric to shake. Eric took it, and W.B. pulled him into an embrace. "I'm glad to see you, Eric."

He slid his arm around Eric's shoulders and drew him to a private alcove. Kitty and Paula didn't follow. They joined the other party guests, but Eric wished they'd stuck by him. W.B. had a quiet but powerful presence, and Eric always felt somewhat intimidated by him.

"Jackie finally seems to be coming out of her grief," W.B. said. "I've noticed a remarkable change in her since you moved here, son, and I'm grateful."

Eric pressed his back against the alcove's curved wall. An incredible pressure had overtaken his chest. Something about this conversation was touching a nerve he couldn't quite identify, and his heart was beating so hard he thought it would burst.

"I consider Jackie my second daughter," W.B. continued, "and Angie sees her as a sister. She's family to us, Eric, and so are you."

"Th-thank you, sir." Eric swallowed. His mouth went dry as memories passed through his mind. W.B. had paid off Eric's school loans. His scholarship from teaching in Africa had run out, and with Red dead and his mom depressed, he couldn't afford to pay tuition. But W.B. had bailed him out, gave him enough money to feed and clothe himself and Kitty.

Initially, Eric had refused the money, but Hyde's voice came out of W.B.'s mouth: " _'Forman's got a rough situation with dough, same as Jackie.'_ " He was reciting a section of the letter Hyde wrote him. " _'Any cash you would've spent on me for birthdays and Christmases—past, present, and future—or on a fancy school or doctor's bills ... you get my point. Never asked you to give me anything, but I'm asking you now. Make sure they're okay ... please.'_ "

W.B. had choked up at the _please,_ and Eric stopped objecting. Hyde had written to all his loved ones before the end, before he'd chased Edna's trouble. He mailed the letters, even Eric's, so they'd arrive a day or two after he left.

"He should have gone to you," Eric said now. "He should've trusted you enough to tell you." It was something he'd thought thousands of times, and the pressure in his chest relented as he gave the thought breath. "You should have known."

W.B. nodded sadly, "I wish I had," and clasped Eric's shoulder. "God knows, I wish I had."

* * *

The main course for dinner consisted of a baked honey-glazed ham. It was like a fancy version of bacon, and Eric dug in heartily. W.B.'s formal dining room had a rich but relaxed atmosphere, which Eric appreciated. Instead of a stodgy portrait of W.B. being the focal point, a collection of jazz sculptures drew the eye. The stylized, wavy figures stood at different points against the walls, as if they were playing the music pumping through the sound system.

The song currently playing was "Birdland" by Weather Report. Eric knew it well thanks to his days at PriceMart. The song had been part of the store's "Sunday Mix," and it was one he always liked. Hearing it now soothed him in ways he probably wasn't entirely conscious of.

Even better, Jackie was sitting next to him, close enough that her bare shoulder occasionally rubbed up against his arm. She smelled like spring flowers, too. She must have dabbed her perfume behind each ear because he was very aware of the scent—and of her voice, the shades of emotion rising and falling in it.

Aunt Paula steered the conversation to Jackie's award from the Associated Press, the reason for this party. Jackie seemed to enjoy talking about it for a while. But when Paula asked for details, like how Jackie got nominated and about the voting process, Jackie's tone became strained. Eric swiftly took control of the discussion, deflecting with, "If you think Burkhart's meteorological skills are something, you should see her Rollerblade some time."

"Oh, God," Jackie said, but she was giggling.

"'Burkhart'?" Kelso looked at Eric in confusion. "Who's Burkhart?"

Jackie glowered. "That's my last name, you idiot."

"Oh," Kelso said, "right. But why's Eric calling you that?"

"Everybody, everybody," Kitty said with excitement, "look at little Stevie! He's feeding his mommy ham!" She burst into laughter, but the quality was forced. She was doing her best to distract Kelso, to keep him from prying into Eric and Jackie's business.

It appeared to work. Kelso speared some ham on his fork and fed it to Fez. "I can do it, too, Mrs. Forman."

Kitty applauded enthusiastically, and Eric mouthed a silent, _"Thank you,"_ to her.

The next round of dinner conversation explored more benign subjects, like the Milwaukee Brewers' chances this season and Fez's regrowing eyelashes. But when the plates were cleared for dessert, Jackie said to W.B., "Eric should be a professor. He talks like one."

Eric flinched. He had no idea what had led her to that topic. Had he been zoning out? Last he remembered, thoughts about _Return of the Jedi_ were floating through his mind. W.B.'s music had to be responsible. One of the songs reminded him of "Lapti Nek," performed inside Jabba the Hutt's palace. From there, he'd imagined Princess Leia in her metal bikini, who'd turned into Jackie.

"Eric," W.B. said, "how do you like teaching at Latham Sholes Prep? Angie went there."

Eric coughed, unclogging his tense throat. "I like it."

"But he'd like teaching college kids better," Jackie said.

"No, no..." Eric said, but no one seemed to hear him.

W.B. tented his fingers over the table. "You want to get a PhD?"

Jackie nodded. "He writes research papers for fun, W.B. For _fun._ "

"You should think about going to Marquette, Eric," Angie said. "They have an M.A./PhD program in Mythological Studies."

Eric eyed Jackie, though his response was to Angie: "And you just happen to know this?"

"I earned my Masters in Business there," Angie said. "and I'm very observant."

_"And,_ " Eric said, "you and Jackie have been talking about me."

"And that."

"'And that!' 'And that!'" Angie's son was copying her. She had him on her lap, and amid his giggles, Eric caught a hint of Hyde's smirk. The boy looked remarkably like his uncle, same dimpled chin and mischievous eyes.

"Fine," Eric said. "I'd love to get my PhD. I just can't afford it. Teachers don't exactly make gobs of money, and the burden of having loans for the rest of my life ... not the way I want to go."

"If you apply and get in," W.B. said, "I'll—"

"No."

"—pay for it."

"You can't," Eric said. "You've done enough. More than enough."

W.B. didn't seem convinced. His tone lost a measure of its smoothness, and his gaze held Eric silent. "My son wanted only two things after he died, for you and Jackie to be happy. If becoming a Professor of Mythology will do that for you..."

"Oh, my goodness!" Eric's mom clapped her hands. "My son's going to be a doctor! Paula, we'll have a doctor in the family!"

"I'm not going to be a doctor, Mom."

"Dr. Pee-Pee!" Kelso shouted. "Dude, you gotta change your name."

"'Paging Dr. Pee-Pee...'" Fez said. "'Code Blue, Dr. Pee-Pee.' Yes, I approve."

"Dr. Pee-Pee!" Stevie giggled the name, and both Angie and Jeff tried to quiet him down.

"Great," Eric said with a sigh. "Look at what you did, Kelso. You're corrupting the kid."

Jackie nudged Eric's arm with her shoulder. "Come on, Forman. If someone was throwing money into my lap, I wouldn't treat it like it was diseased."

"I'm not doing that," Eric said. "I'm just ... I don't know."

"Steven and I—we—I didn't get to raise him," W.B. said. "Then his life was taken … so soon after we met. I only had a year with him, but in that short time, I learned just how remarkable a man he'd become." He paused for a breath. His voice was rough and shaking with pain. "Let me do this, Eric. For you ... and for him."

Angie dabbed her eyes with a napkin. "Eric, please let Daddy do this."

Eric sighed again, and his dad's voice cut through his mind: _"What kind of person rejects getting what he wants? A dumbass, that's who. Take the money, Eric."_

"Okay," Eric said.

Jackie looked at him with the beginnings of a smile. "Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay," he said, and her smile gave way to a grin. Her arms flung open, and she surrounded him in one of the most turbulent and best hugs of his life. "What's this all about?" he whispered.

"You deserve to be happy, you moron," she whispered back.

"Oh."

* * *

After a dessert of raspberries and chocolate tarts, Jackie took Eric's hand and led him upstairs. She brought him to her favorite part of W.B.'s house, the balcony. It extended off the sunroom, which she also liked; but at nine-thirty at night, no sun was to be had. The air outside was crisp but not bitter. It raised gooseflesh on her skin, but she elected not to wear her coat.

Eric had been brave today by accepting W.B.'s offer, and his courage had awoken hers. She closed the glass door behind them for privacy before joining him at the balcony railing. His arms were draped over it, and his gaze seemed far away. The Milwaukee River stretched out before them. Lights from the Brewers' Hill neighborhood shone in the water, creating an Impressionist painting of midnight blue, golden yellow, and white.

"Pretty, isn't it?" she said. "And this time I'm not talking about me. I know how pretty I am."

His shoulders barely shrugged in response. His hair, stirring in the autumn breeze, had more life to it than he did. This was no good. She leaned her hip against the railing and brushed her fingertips against his right arm. Her heart throbbed at the contact, a combination of fear and excitement.

He must've had a similar response because an agitated state replaced his melancholy. His breathing grew loud, and the tendons in his arms twitched. His eyes focused on her, with an intensity she'd rarely witnessed in them, and he said, "Are you still in love with Hyde?"

The question startled her, but she didn't hesitate. "Yes."

He nodded once before returning his attention to the river.

"I'll never stop loving Steven," she said. Eric deserved honesty, but he also needed to know the whole truth. "I can still feel him, you know? Like he's keeping an eye on me from ... well, wherever his spirit is." She dangled her arms over the balcony and kept her face level with his. She wanted him to see her, even if it was only in his periphery vision. "But I'm still alive—and with you, Eric, I _feel_ alive."

He turned his face slightly toward her, but she couldn't read his expression. Was he beginning to understand?

"You make me feel good," she said, "without guilt. For so long, any bit of joy I experienced without Steven felt completely wrong ... but not with you."

Finally, his features softened, and the hint of a smile crept in. "I'm glad."

"Me, too."

"So..." The back of his right hand pressed against the back of her left. Their fingers entwined awkwardly but in a pleasing sort of way. "You think we might have a little something here?"

She squeezed his fingertips into her palm. "No."

* * *

_No?_ Eric's frown grew heavy until his whole face collapsed. His eyes must've fallen where his mouth used to be, and his mouth was somewhere on the balcony floor by his foot. _No._ The word had created a vacuum inside his chest, had slowed time to an excruciating degree. Why was he still holding onto Jackie's hand like a fool?

"I think we have _a lot,_ " she said and poked his cheek. "Man, you really can be such a maroon."

Chuckles left his throat in a trickle. Then the dam broke. Laughter flooded from him, loud and out of control and sounding somewhat insane. The void inside him was filling up with a ticklish sort of glee, and it rearranged his face back to its proper composition. "Is that so?" he said and returned her poke to the cheek.

"Yes." She was grinning, and that grin became his whole world as it moved closer to him. Her lips landed on his mouth softly, briefly, but in a definite kiss. "I knew it," she said afterward. "That felt nice, _really_ nice ... and I want more."

His lips were buzzing. He wanted to give her more, but ... "Do you think Hyde would be okay with this?" He straightened up on the railing and gestured between himself and Jackie. "With us being together ... _that_ way?"

"If he were alive?" She straightened up, too, and her expression grew serious. "He'd kill you for even thinking about it, and I'd be on the run with him after the murder. But he's dead, and he'd want—he _wants_ me to be happy."

"Does that mean I...?"

She placed her hand on his chest, something she'd been doing more and more lately. "You have a good heart, Eric, and..." she glanced down, and her thumb pressed into heartbeat. "I'm _in_ love with you, too."  
She glanced back up, and the sight that met her must've been a jarring one. He was nodding fervently. Inside his head, his thoughts were jumping around, whooping it up, and having a raucous party.

"If you say something stupid back to me," she said, "like you love cake, I'll kick you until your shins bleed."

He stopped nodding and quieted down his thoughts. He wrapped an arm around her waist, pulled her closer, and combed a hand through her hair. "Kick me all you like, but I've gone over to the Dark Side. Burkhart— _Jackie,_ I've been in love with you for a while."

"Then it's settled, despite your _Star Wars_ talk." She cupped his cheeks and drew him in for a kiss.

Her mouth moved quickly and deeply into his, and he held onto her back for support. The emotions rippling through his body, along with his purely physical response to her, overwhelmed him into incoherence. They'd both lost so much eight years ago. But in the eight years since, they'd helped each other recover, in ways that would probably take another eight years to process.

He didn't care. With Jackie at his side, he felt invincible, and he regained his wits. The sensuality and vigor of her kiss had astounded him, but he gave it right back.

"Didn't expect that," she said once they parted. Her face was flushed, and her hand was gripping the back of his shirt.

"That's my middle name: Eric Does-the-Unexpected Forman."

He waited for her derisive cackling, the ridicule, but the laughter never came. "That's an appropriate middle name," she said and looked over at the river. "I never expected to be here with you ... not like this. But life's full of swerves we can't prepare for." Her gaze drifted back to him. "We either crash and don't get up, or we right ourselves and keep on going."

"Do you, um..." he was stroking her sides, "do you want to keep going?"

She answered by leaning in for another kiss.


End file.
